Punishment would always fit the crime of those committing them. That’s what Andromeda had been taught as a young girl, growing within the rules of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Of course, these crimes never amounted to that which you’d find in a law book. They never were ruled out by a jury, nor the peers, and the people never had a say.
You followed them because your life depended on them. Because it was your duty, as a man, or a woman, within your birth right to follow them. Muggleborns—Mudbloods—would never grace the lives of those within the Sacred few left. Upholding the means—the reigns or noose, whichever way you prefer to look at it—was crucial. Blacks, in her own experience, married onto those suitable.
There, as she gripped the frothing mug. In her indulgence for that which the Three Broomsticks could provide. What it could only provide was the warmth. Not the echo of a former love. When flames grew bright for Lucius, when she’d loved him yes, at one point in her youth. But her heart was changed, evolved. Shifted, and grew, as all things do.
It didn’t mean she was any less pained from the memory of leaving him. High and dry like the clothing on the line, where she stood by the window of Malfoy Manor. Soon to be hers, as she spun the engagement ring on her finger. Now. Now or never. Telling him, it forced her to the border between two worlds she had tried to reside him. But ending it—tossed her right over the edge into the unknown.
It was all she could remember in her daze, hues locked onto his frame, as he chatted and smiled. Once, it’d been too her—now, it was a shot in the dark he’d speak to her with the same vigor. With the same politeness he’d shown others of his kind. Enough of this, Andromeda. She thought sourly to herself, finding it within to tear her gaze away from a life she left. She left it—it was gone to her, and for good reason. She found something more. Something blessed, and pure, and hers, and good. It’d been all she wanted.
All of that dismal life, lingering in the shadows, looking for the stars when she wanted the moonlight to guide her path. It always had—wouldn’t it so, now?
When she looked once more, eyes locked—and alone, perhaps the chance of an apology could become of her. Or she’d lose all footing and forget to speak. It was all her mind could twist, as footsteps blindly took her where she needed to go, standing before him. “Lucius,” She whispered, in that breathy tone she’d done once before, in what felt like another lifetime. “I—How are you?” Stupid question. She knew the answer to that.
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